Seven Years Ago
2281 Words
Seven Years Ago
Horse and rider canter into the yard, assorted pairs of eyes watching their arrival.
It’s a fine sunny day and everyone has found work to do outside. Brett, wearing faded overalls, touches up blistered paint on the sheds, giving her a wave as she passes. Old Jacob, busy clearing a blocked drain in the yard, wearing his usual stinking rags, follows her with his rheumy gaze.
Tom, stripped to the waist to keep the muck off his shirt, helps. Well-muscled from hard physical work, he’s a handsome sight. Some girl called Carol must have thought the same, judging by the tattooed rose carrying her name which curves from shoulder to chest.
But handsome is as handsome does, and his good looks are spoiled by his slit-eyed scowl as, seeing Jenny, he turns away.
Jenny’s stance now is very different from the first time she mounted Maggie. Sitting straight, her spine is a smooth curve from shoulder to hip. Her thighs move rhythmically in a rise-and-fall with Maggie’s movement. And her hair, long and loose, sways in time with the motion.
Mrs Collier holds the reins for her as she dismounts. “You're becoming a fine rider, Jenny.”
The girl grins, bright and enthusiastic. “Am I?”
“You are. You know,” says the woman, “Maggie here was fine for you when you first started. She’s a good horse for a learner, but you’ve come on a lot. You need a ride with a bit more challenge now.”
Jenny's head twists and Mrs Collier's eyes follow her to where a silver-grey stallion struts around the ring like moonlight on hooves. “No, not Dancer. He's a challenge for even the best.” Jenny’s face falls, but Mrs Collier continues, “No, in fact, we were thinking of buying another mare for breeding. We thought you might like to come with us when we take a look at what’s on offer.”
Jenny’s emerald-eyed gaze widens. “I can choose my own horse?”
“Um, no, not exactly. We’re a commercial operation here and we have to be practical. But if we narrow it down to two or three we think might be suitable, you could tell us which one you like best. Good enough?”
“Oh, yes!”
*****
“So, what do you think, Jenny?” Mrs Collier’s voice is bland, but her eyes narrow as she watches the teenager.
Jenny watches the horse circling the ring on a lead-rein. The mare is handsome, her chestnut-gold coat glinting in the sunshine, black mane and tail rippling with the breeze. Certainly, she’s been presented to look her best. Jenny’s head tilts as she zeros in on some feature. “Do you think she’s walking as she should? She looks to me as though she’s favouring the near hind a bit.”
Mrs Collier sucks at her teeth. “And I’d agree with you.” She swings around. “Riley, what are you trying to foist on me? I thought we’d known each other too long for you to try that kind of cheap trick on me.”
The dealer flushes, but with barely a break in his musical Irish lilt, “Well, how about that lady over there?” He points across to another enclosure.
Mrs Collier casts an eye across, then, “Jenny?”
“She’s a good horse for a youngster,” says Riley. “Her last rider was a girl just about your age.”
“Why did they sell her?” asks Mrs Collier, the scent of wrath still floating under her words.
Riley seems unmoved. “Moving back to the City, so they told me.”
Jenny walks across, then around the pen, eyeing the mare from all sides; a lovely bay roan, with mane, tail and lower legs, all in a glossy black, her face is a shade of copper heading for pink.
“She has a pretty face,” says Jenny.
“So she does,” says Mrs Collier. “Take her round then, Riley.”
The Irishman gives a nod to the stable lad, who clips on the lead-rein, takes the mare to the ring, and with a click of the tongue, first trots, then paces her. Her movement is smooth and graceful, lithe muscle gliding easily under satin skin.
“She’s a darlin’ is this one,” says Riley. “An ideal mount for a middle-grade rider.” He c***s an eye at Jenny. “Want to swing a leg over and take her around yourself?”
The mare is saddled, and Jenny mounts her smoothly, the horse nickering softly as her rider settles. As the two first walk, then trot around the ring, Jenny’s smile grows broader.
Eventually, Mrs Collier reins her in. “Do you like her, Jenny? Enough for her to be your horse to look after and ride?”
“Oh, yes. She's beautiful.”
“Good, that's agreed then. If you want to raise the invoice, Riley, I'll get a bank draft sent across.”
“What's she called?” asks Jenny.
“This little lady?” says the man, slapping the glossy neck. “She’s called Charlotte.”
*****
All the way back to the farm, Jenny keeps the little window in the back of the cab open, talking softly to the horse travelling in the rear, the mare responding with soft nickers. By the time they pull up, dropping the tailgate to lead her out, she is nuzzling at Jenny, asking for attention.
“Are you going to keep the name, Jenny?”
“Can I?”
“She’s your horse. It’s up to you what to call her.”
Jenny scratches at ears which radar forward as the mare snuffs for the apple she knows lurks in a pocket. “I’ll call her Charlie.”
“Charlie it is, then.”
“Where are we going to keep her?”
“She can have the stall next to Dancer. That’ll keep him happy too, and give them chance to get to know each other before she has her season.”
“How will you know when that is?”
Mrs Collier gives her a wry glance. “Dancer will tell us when she’s ready. Don’t worry. We won’t miss it.”
“He’ll try to get to her?”
“He’ll probably kick the stall apart if we don’t let him at her when the time comes.”
Jenny swallows. “That sounds…. violent.”
“It’s just Dancer doing what comes naturally.”
*****
Charlie steps delicately through the long grass. Brilliantly green now after the warm rains and warmer sunshine of early Summer, the grass sweeps around the legs of the horse as Jenny rides easily atop her, swaying gently with the movement of her mount. Her long hair glints copper in the sunshine, complementing the bronze highlights on the face of the horse.
A nudge from the heels and the pair pick up pace, the girl making an easy up-down cadence as they move through a trot, then a canter, before breaking into full gallop through the emerald sea. The mare’s mane and tail are a coursing black stream, flowing through the air to match Jenny’s hair, which ripples behind her, a fluid line of red.
A small group watches from the gate, Chad and his parents chatting with Mrs Collier.
“She’s developing into a first-class rider, and that’s a fact,” comments Mr Bennett.
“She’s certainly a lovely looking girl,” replies his wife, “Eh, Chad?”
Chad watches the galloping pair, entranced. “It's the most beautiful thing I ever saw,” he breathes.
Mrs Bennett watches intently, then nudges his father, eye-pointing their son. He takes the hint. “Why don't you ask Jenny over to have a meal with us some time?”
“Could I? I’d like that.”
“Of course you can. That would be alright, wouldn’t it, Eleanor?”
“If Jenny would like to, then it’s fine by me.”
*****
At the end of the track, Chad is waiting. As usual, he takes Jenny’s school bag, slinging it over his shoulder. But this morning, he proffers something to her, smiling a little timidly. “I have something for you.”
Jenny looks at the offering in Chad’s hand; pale mauve, tiny and delicate. “Flowers? For me?”
“They’re violets. I found the last few under the hedgerow. They’re almost finished for the summer now, but I saw them and, well, I thought of you.”
She doesn’t move and after a moment, Chad droops a bit. “Don’t you like them?”
“Oh, yes.” She reaches to take the tiny blooms. “They’re beautiful. No-one’s ever given me flowers before.”
Jenny holds them to her nose. “They smell lovely. Thank you, Chad.” And his blue eyes swim as shyly, her gaze shifts to his and she smiles.
*****
“Those are pretty, Jenny,” says Mrs Collier, as she sees the miniature bouquet peeking from a glass of water in Jenny’s bedroom. “You must have searched high and low to find them this late in the season.”
Colour pinks at Jenny’s cheeks. “Chad gave them to me.” She sucks at her lower lip, looking away.
“Did he now? You’d better look after them then, hadn’t you.”
Mrs Collier regards the girl before her, now so different from the red-eyed, scrawny creature who first arrived. Tall, lithe and becoming full-figured; vivid green eyes look out from porcelain skin, all framed by a tumble of glossy auburn tresses. And the blush on her high cheekbones matches the tint at her lips.
She is quite lovely, and with growing maturity, is becoming beautiful.
“Do you know how to press flowers?”
Jenny’s brows knit. “Press them?”
“It’s a way of preserving flowers, rather than simply letting them die on you. Enjoy your violets for a day or so, but before they wilt, I’ll show you how to press them, then you have them as a keepsake. I’ll find a couple of old newspapers for you.”
*****
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Jenny. I don’t know anyone else like you. I want to be with you all of the time. Forever.”
Jenny’s gaze is mesmerised. “Really? All the time?”
“Yes, really. Jenny, why don’t we get married? Then we can be together forever.”
She frowns. “But we’re too young to get married.”
“That doesn’t matter.” Chad is all enthusiasm, his hands waving wildly as he speaks. “It's our last year at school. We could get married next year. Or the year after that. It’ll be forever anyway, won’t it, once we do it? So, waiting a while doesn’t matter. We can just… agree….that’s what we’re going to do.”
Chin trembling a little, her startling green gaze swimming, “You really want to marry me?”
“Yes, I do. Would you like to marry me?” He holds her at the shoulders. “Please say yes.”
She barely hesitates. “Oh, yes. Yes, I would.”
Chad breaks into a pumpkin smile. “Can I… kiss you?” He moves a little closer. She blinks, stepping back. “Really,” he says, “Just a kiss. Nothing… else. That’s alright, isn’t it, if we’re getting married?”
Poised as though to run, her voice a whisper, “Alright then.”
Blinking hard, he inches towards her, taking her hands in his, then leaning in, his lips brush hers. “Jenny…”
A voice drifts up. “Chad, Jenny? Out of that hay barn, please. Down here where I can see you.” Two heads poke out to see Mrs Collier standing arms and legs akimbo, looking up. As she spots them, “And that means right now, please.”
*****
Jenny helps Mrs Collier peg washing onto a line. At the end of the garden, a spade appears periodically, tosses mud and muck onto a heap at the side, then vanishes back down into the ditch. An unpleasant smell drifts through the air, stagnant and foul. Undoubtedly some is from the sludge being cleared from the trench, but….
“Who is he? Sometimes he’s here and sometimes he isn’t.”
“Old Jacob?” says Mrs Collier, speaking through a mouthful of pegs. “He’s just a tramp. He wanders from one place to the next, doing whatever they’ve got by way of work for as long as it lasts. He’s not the fastest worker in the world, but he’s happy enough to do the jobs others prefer to avoid.”
“Mmm,” nods Jenny. “He was helping Brett clean out the piggery earlier.”
“Yes, and I think he’s lined up to be clearing out the chicken house next week. Deep bedding’s good for over-wintering the birds, but it’s a sorry job cleaning it out come the summer.”
“Doesn’t he mind doing those sorts of jobs? It seems a bit unfair to give him all….”
She trails off as Mrs Collier gives her a sharp look. “He gets paid extra because the work’s unpleasant. And given that he doesn’t bother cleaning up or changing his clothes afterwards, I’d say he doesn’t care.”
She tugs a shirt from the basket of clean laundry, shaking out the creases with unnecessary violence before pegging it up. “He’s always offered the use of the bathroom after he’s finished the work, and I’ve never yet known him take anyone up on it. They say he had a wife once. I’d guess his habits are the reason there’s no sign of her now.” She sniffs. “If he wanted the more appealing jobs, he could work more regularly. But he doesn’t. He comes in, gets well paid and we don’t see him again until he’s drunk it all away.”
She eyes the flying muck without favour. “As it is, it’s beyond me where he gets all his money. I usually have an idea where he’s working, and he always seems to have more to spend on drink than seems reasonable to me.” She shrugs it off. “Maybe someone out there has more money than sense with what they pay him.”
An unusually rancid surge billows over them and both turn their faces away, waiting for the breeze to blow the air clean. Jenny screws her eyes up against the reek.
“Faugh!” Mrs Collier eyes her clean washing. “Perhaps I should have waited to hang these out.”
*****
Chad scowls. “I don't like the way he looks at you.”
“Who? What do you mean?”
“I've seen him, Old Jacob. He watches you whenever he's around.”
Brett looks her up and down. “There's plenty of reasons for looking at Jenny.” He grins disarmingly, making sure his joke is understood. Jenny pokes her tongue out at him.
Arms folded and scuffing the ground, Chad growls, “Well, I don't like it.”
Brett elbows him in the ribs. “I’ll let you into a secret, Chad. I don’t think Jenny is going to elope with Old Jacob. At least not until he’s had a wash. So, if I were you, I’d stop worrying.”
*****
- Writer
